


Mr. Sandman, Bring Me A Dream

by MSpataro210



Series: Season 11 Inspired [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coda to 11x05, Dream sneak, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Mostly Amara, Thin Lizzie, a smidgen, but also kind of dark, happy dreams, nice, we are talking about the Darkness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-06
Updated: 2015-11-06
Packaged: 2018-04-30 06:37:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5153918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MSpataro210/pseuds/MSpataro210
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley thinks Amara is kidding herself when she says Dean is the perfect man for her, the only one who understands her.  Says that she's living some teenage dream, wanting to live out a life with a man she hardly knows.  But she knows Dean: knows him inside and out.  And she's sure he wants her as much as she wants him.  The only thing she's ever felt something for.  They share a dark heart.  But Crowley won't believe her, so she needs proof.  And what better way to get the man of her dreams... than by going in them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mr. Sandman, Bring Me A Dream

**Author's Note:**

> I think this is by far one of my favorite fics i have ever written, and I hope you guys really enjoy this!  
> I worked very hard and own nothing!

Mr. Sandman, Bring Me a Dream:

            The scratch of the record about to be spun fills the air first, before soft dulcet tones emit from the conical speaker.  It fills every inch of space, from the farthest walls filled with posters of famous bad boys: Adolf Hitler, Jeffrey Dahmer, and Charles Ponzi.  It reaches the shelf stuffed head to toe with the great works from the Art of War to Helter Skelter.  It bathes the desk where the pencil case filled with throwing knives sits. It reaches the ears of the girl no older than 17, sits applying a red stain to her lips.  She puckers, and savors the metallic taste on her tongue. She primps her hair twice, letting the curls bounce back onto her shoulder as she inspects the wingtip painstakingly brushed onto her lids.

            “I hope you appreciate all the hard work I did, Dean,” she says aloud, “all of it was for you.”

            She swivels, turning towards a man who rests on an adjacent chair.  He’s dressed in a simple plaid shirt, jeans, and work boots. His normally towering height slumped in the chair.  His eyes giving her a vacant stare, as she had sucked the very life from him _hours_ ago.

            “Aren’t you going to ask me to dance?” she asks, scandalized.  She gets no response.

            “You’re lucky we’re living in a modern world,” she tells him, standing up and extending a hand, “otherwise we would be going nowhere.”  She pulls him forward, dead weight light in her superior grip, and begins to twirl the body across the room in a satire of a waltz.  She tries to move to the melody, but her partner has no rhythm whatsoever. It doesn’t help he keeps stepping on her toes!

            “Honestly,” she berates him, “at least pretend to be interested!”

            “What is going on here?”

            The girl stops, dropping the man, letting him crumple onto the ground.  Another man, much smaller, much older, stands in a black suit, dark eyes fixed in annoyance and confusion on the scene.

            “Uncle Crowley!” the girl stomps, “You didn’t knock!”

            “This is my dungeon, I don’t need to knock,” he moves further in, kicking the body to turn his face upwards, “But what I want to know is why I have to find out from some random demon that you’ve killed one of my best bodyguards just to have a notch on your dance card, Amara!”

            “He wasn’t your best if I was able to kill him,” Amara rolls her eyes, moving back towards her boudoir.

            “That doesn’t mean you get to kill him!” Crowley follows, voice breaking at the end of his statement.

            “Semantics,” Amara says.

            Crowley squints: “You’re not using that correctly.”

            “ _Was_ there a reason you came into my room,” Amara sighs, picking up some blush to add to her cheeks, “or is annoying me what you do for fun nowadays?”

            Crowley growls, but answers her.  “I’m very annoyed with you,” he tells her, “sneaking out of your room on an illegal road trip-“

            “Hey! You gave me that book on Lizzie Borden,” she talks back, “I was curious.  And hungry.”

            “Then I’ll order in!” he yells, “You don’t need to go out!”

            Amara turns. “I’m not some little Ariel you get to lock up under the sea, Uncle Crowley,” she says, voice calm with the hint of a threat hidden behind her lips, “I’m a young woman with centuries behind her and millennia ahead.  And I _will_ do what I want.”

            Crowley smiles ruefully. “For someone as old as you keep reminding us, you still think and act like a child.”

            “And what is that supposed to mean-“

            “Do you really think Dean is going to just leave everything behind and join you in some… _unholy_ matrimony?” Crowley interrupts.

            Amara narrows her eyes: “What’s between Dean and I is between _me_ and _him._ ”

            “You’re delusional,” he tells her, voice saccharine with false sympathy, “but I understand, sweetie. We’ve all been there, trust me.”

            She stands, “You know nothing, old man.”

            “So tell me,” he sits now, “how are you better than the rest?”

            “Dean and I,” she starts, a faraway look gleaming in her gaze, “we just fit.  He understands me and I understand him.  With him, all the years of loneliness felt like… like _nothing_.  He freed me, and I plan to free him as well: of a life filled with emotions and connections that cause him nothing but pain. The only person he’ll need… is me. Our bond is, is… it’s profound!”

            She finishes, and looks towards Crowley to see his lips turned up, trying to contain his laughter. At a joke she does not know, and cannot understand.  But oh how she wishes.

He stands, moving towards the door.

“Maybe when you’ve matured,” he tells her, back towards her, “when you’re 50 in a day or two, you’ll realize where you really stand with him.” He closes the door.

She stands for a minute, maybe an hour, maybe only a second, filled with a burning fury at his doubt.  Amara screams.

The shards of a vase shatter against the metal barrier between her room and the hallway.

* * *

 

Books lay spread about the room, yellow pages opened to certain passages and incantations.  A cauldron sits atop the oak desk, steam bubbling from the top.  Amara stands at her closet, hands darting between fabrics, searching for the right thing to wear.

She pulls out a tea length emerald dress, and she puts it against her pale skin.  Amara looks at herself in the full-length mirror and can’t help but think this will so wonderfully go with Dean’s eyes.

Eyes she will be looking into tonight.

Well… not physically, but in a way.

After her little bout with “uncle dearest” she couldn’t wait to prove him wrong. And what better way to get her answer than by hearing it straight from the source.

So, sneaking through the musty, dusty halls, she found some books with the name _Rowena_ scrawled behind the cover. If she actually cared about others she’d wonder whom these books belonged to before.

But she was a woman on a mission… as well as a millennia-old monster with no concept of feelings other than anger, hunger and _want._

And what she wants now… is Dean Winchester.

Now she waits for the smoke from the cauldron she spend over two hours toiling over to shift from blue to red by getting ready to greet the man of her dreams… in _his_.

Amara slips the straps of the purple gown off and lets it slide down her smooth skin, thinking about how all the hard work of gathering these ingredients will pay off in the end.

While peeking and prodding through the books for a way to reach what’s hers, she discovered a nice little potion that would allow someone to enter a person of their choosing’s dream.

And her choice has long been made.

With some blood of the innocent, bones of a crow, dream root, and a lot of newt eye she only had one more thing to do.  And now that the smoke was a fiendish red, she checked her reflection over once more before moving towards her desk.

She places her hands on each side of the cauldron, gripping the hot metal, as she stares into the clear liquid.  In her mind, she pictures her Dean, as clear as the day he freed her. She places all of her concentration on the image, letting it overflow her mind and leak into other parts. It slides through her veins, slips through her nerves, until it reaches her fingers.  Pushing harder, she sends the image into the metal, and into the potion.

Suddenly the smoke violently shifts from red to green, and Amara throws her head back, her eyes now white and blank. 

The green smoke floats up through the ceiling, through the many layers of Hell, and follows a path until it reaches a recessed door in the middle of Kansas. It sneaks under the aged metal, spilling into the dimly lit room.  Like a snake it slithers across the marble, sniffing out its target with the skills of a bloodhound.

It passes by the brightly lit room of what is the library, where a solitary figure sits with his head pressed to the books, slightly snoring.

The smoke finally stops at a door in a long hallway, disappearing under the crack between the door and the floor.

It passes in front of the bright red screen of the television asking its viewers if it would like to continue watching, and slips up the covers until seeping into the ear of the man it has been searching for.

* * *

 

_Cold._

_A sensation she’d never thought she’d experience, given that things like temperature and time have no meaning to her, the Darkness.  But outside a brightly lit house surrounded by others like it, she can’t help the shiver that makes its way up her spine._

_She breathes out, captivated by the mist she sees leave her body._

_Amara is frightened, confused, startled at the white puffs that leave her mouth every time she huffs a breath out. She tries to grasp it in her pale, shaking hands, but it escapes._

_Her first thought: she has a soul?_

_A feeling welled up inside her she had no name for, only for it to be squashed down when her sense of reality stepped in._

_The next thought was that she was leaking, and cursed every naughty word she learned from her lessons that her foolishness now might have destroyed her.  But after a while she realized she wasn’t reverting back to the size of an infant anytime soon._

_It’s only when a snowflake touched the tip of her nose that she remembered her lessons on human physiology. One of the first things she learned, if ever in case she confused the hot breathes of a person’s mouth were bits and pieces of a soul just waiting to be devoured._

_She was foolish then, and she is being foolish now._

_Amara remembers her mission, her Dean, and stalks towards the house._

_Even with the dress ending above her shins, she still has to pull it up to avoid ruining it. She’s already lost hope on the heels she spent an hour picking out._

_Relief is what she guesses at when she finds footing on the wooden porch encircling the festive house. Its windows are frosted, but well lit. And if she peered inside, she could see people inside._

_On the couch sit a man and a woman; raven haired and blonde, with skin wrinkled with a life well lived. They sit arm and arm, fingers curled around each other with nothing between them but a sense of warmth Amara can feel from the outside.  They are focused on another couple in the room: another old pairing of male and female. But these two did not have the same connection as the previous two.  Their relationship was pure camaraderie, as Amara has learned enough about body language to imitate the appearance of humanity._

_Finding no one she knows, she moves from one window to the next._

_In this room is a tall tree, lit almost as brightly as the outside of the house._

_A woman with red hair is at the piano, head thrown back in laughter at something a smaller, Asian boy said. The elder Asian lady looks on disapproving, shaking her head at the antics of the younger.  On the other side of the room sits another grouping. A brunette woman and a blonde in a test of strength it seems, while a smaller blonde girl about her age with the bluest of eyes cheers for the next round.  Finally, her eyes land on the final people in the room.  A tall bear of a man and a small blonde woman sit conversing, drinks in hand and smiles in their eyes._

_Each and every scene is one of domestic bliss._

_How it sickens Amara._

_How it frightens her._

_Again moving forward, she rounds the corner to peek into a less lively room, but with a scene more gut wrenching than the last._

_A tall man, with long hair stands with a soft smile on his face.  She remembers his name in a distant memory of when she was freshly removed from her mother’s womb.  He stands with a small bundle clutched in his hands: a pink blanket.  He rocks up and down in comfort.  A lullaby on his lips from what Amara can guess._

_She’s never had a lullaby. But she never had the time for one anyway._

_Unbridled anger, over the scene or how she can’t find the one she wants makes her rush from the third window and circle the house like a vulture._

_However, while pacing the roundabout, she almost misses what she wanted._

_He stands at a counter, hands pressing against the edges of a pastry.  She remembers its name: pie.  Dean’s favorite.  Amara smiles. She leans up against the window until her nostrils are fully flared._

_Dean removes his hands, licking his lips at the beauty of his creation.  He’s covered in flour, and wears a red apron tied against his chest._

_He reaches for a knife, and Amara can only guess at what flavor is in the delicious delicacy he has created. Boisonberry?  Cherry?  Her number one pick is Apple: his favorite._

_But instead of slicing the sharp knife into the flaky, golden crust, it instead slices through a moist cylindrical thing with no center.  He cuts a slice for himself, spraying some whipped cream over it and putting a strawberry on top, before taking a bite into it._

_His face is pure bliss._

_Her face is pure confusion._

_She’s so distracted by the out of character choice of the man she knows inside and out that she misses the other who enters the room_

_He’s quiet, a small smile on his face.  His blue eyes are alive with an emotion she cannot pin down, like all the others she has encountered before in this house of surprises.  She’s so taken back by his presence, as if he was truly in this dream as much as she was._

_He sneaks through the kitchen, until he stands behind her Dean._

_In an instant a thunderous rush runs down her spine as she holds herself back in suspense. She doesn’t know what this man is going to do, but she knows she will not like it._

_And she’s right._

_The man’s arms grip behind Dean’s, and he buries his face in Dean’s neck: his scruff tickling and touching Dean’s freckled skin._

_Amara frowns._

_Dean is shocked, almost dropping his plate.  But he seems to recognize the person who is touching him in a way Amara has only imagined. He places his plate back on the counter, and turns himself around in the man’s grip._

_It’s something in the eyes. The way they scrunch, crinkles squeezing the corners of his eyes.  Twinkling with a certain something that made his eyes twinkle like the stars Amara remembers in her earlier life._

_She’s never felt more alone._

_Amara grips the front of her dress, nails digging into the silk fabric._

_She searches for the connection, the thing that links her to Dean, but it’s so hard to find._

_It’s **never** been this hard to find._

_She doesn’t know why she didn’t feel it before but she can’t feel it like she has before. What was once like a coupling between two train cars is now fraying strands of a rope._

_Amara sucks in a cold breath, stepping away from the window and backing herself into a pillar. An idea of regret stabs at her brain, and as much as she wants to leave she can’t look away._

_Through the window the man holding Dean, caging him in, lifts one hand to stroke at his face. Her face.  He moves closer to Dean’s mouth.  Her mouth.  There’s a scant couple of inches between them, diminishing with each second until… until…_

“Aaaagggghhh!!!”

Amara flies back, upending the cauldron and falling onto the bed. The potion seeps out onto the floor of her room as she bends the pages of the books she lies on.

For one instant she is completely still.

In the next she turns over, clawing at the books and ripping pages and pages.

“That no good- stupid- man stealing- space taking- little runt of an insignificant piece of dust!”

She leans up: her face blank from all anger.

Amara steps off the bed, kicking off her ruined heels as she makes her way towards her boudoir.  She sits, reaching for a brush to her right.  The bristles pass through her brunette strands as she holds the ends in place.

“It’s no matter.”

Brush.

“All that warm, mushy, family friendly feelings… they are all a distraction.”

Brush.

“Cutting away at our precious bond.”

Brush.

“But no matter who or what gets in my way…”

Brush.

“I’ll _destroy_ them.”

She stops.

“Starting with that man who likes playing with what’s not _his_.”

**Author's Note:**

> Good, right? I loved writing each and every word and I hoped you enjoyed reading it! Kudos and comment!


End file.
